Flash The Bronze
by Grabbag Lapidary
Summary: 2012MovieVerse. Five months after passing the Assessment, Judge Cornelius is approached by Judge Anderson - the telepath has a job offer for him, but will he take it and abandon the sector he's really making a difference in? For details on my fanon setting, see my profile.


**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

This story takes place about five months after "Aegis" (mid to late August). It follows on from the events in that story, so it might not make sense without having read it.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories. And please _do_ log in when you review – I want to be able to thank people!

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Flash The Bronze**

It starts with surveillance – the computer brain behind an electronic eye mounted in the drone flying high above the impossible city that is all that is left of civilization in a world-gone-rad processing data it cannot comprehend as meaning. The chain of technology runs link-by-inevitable-link until it reaches the massive crowded room in the Hall of Justice; the central processing center of Control.

Illuminated only by the glow from the banks of screens in front of them, the air warm and dry from the computers, operators field not only the automated identifications and reports from machines which do not understand what is happening, but merely recognize patterns, but also the frantic 911 calls from people who understand what is happening and recognize the pattern all-too-well. It is here that the technology, the system which works perfectly to identify, process and relay, breaks down when it encounters the blessing and the curse of human beings.

Only humans can sort meaning and make sense of the crimes of Mega City One, only a particular kind of human – what some perps and even citizens might whisper are _barely human_ – can respond to it; the Judges. And their ranks are stretched too-thin, the pressures on the Justice Department too-great. The thin black-and-bronze line is pulled taut, almost to its breaking point. Of the seventeen thousand serious crimes reported each and every day – and Grud-only-knows how many crimes go unreported – the Judges can respond to only six-percent.

It starts with surveillance, the brilliant curse of technology which allows the Judges to know just how badly they are failing the city. For ninety-four-percent of crimes, it ends with them being a red-lined note on the giant monitors in Control. Only six-percent of crimes ever get a Judge's response and the rare justice-blue highlight.

In Control, an operator twirled her stylus in her fingers as she read the automated report from the machines. "Drone cam identifies suspect vehicle on highway 27, sector 119," she said clearly into the microphone. She stopped twirling the stylus and was already reaching out to throw the call, marked red, on the monitor as she continued. "Vehicle was involved in ram-raid smash and grab of Lucido's Fine Jewelry at oh-three-forty-seven hours." It was oh-six-fifty, minutes before sunrise in Mega City One. The operator guessed this call would remain red until it fell off the bottom of the monitor about the time dawn broke over the streets, by which time the perps would be long-gone.

Her cynicism was neither unexpected nor unwarranted; she was an experienced operator, well-versed in how things worked. But this was a new shift for her – she had a newborn at home, although Grud-knows she wondered daily about bringing a child into this hellhole; her supervisor had shuffled responsibilities to make it easier for her and her husband. She wasn't familiar with sector 119 and the unspoken rules the Judges there lived by.

"_Control, this is Cornelius._" The voice came instantly back across the radio waves, almost before she had finished speaking. "_I've got the Lucido follow-up. Data to my bike._"

The operator tapped her stylus on the screen in front of her, marking the call blue, throwing it onto the monitor and sending the details to his lawmaster. "Data away, Judge," she said. Irrationally, not knowing why, she added, "Good luck."

The operator one station over turned to her, his mouth falling open in wonder. He clamped his fist around the microphone in front of his lips and asked, amazed, "Did you just wish _John Cornelius_ good luck?"

She clutched at her own microphone. "I guess," she admitted. "Why? Doesn't he believe in it?"

He shook his head. "It ain't that – I don't think it believes in _him_."

oOo

Leaning over the handlebars of his bike, road-dust plastering his cheeks and chin, the sweat and grime from eleven-hours of a twelve-hour shift itching under his fatigues, Cornelius grinned. "Thank you, Control," he replied. He clenched his teeth, changing channels with the bite-down selector as he glanced at the drone feed. "Traffic control? Highway 27 junctions 119-37 through '42 – cascade all lights to stop. Hold for two minutes."

"_Wilco, Judge,_" came back the instant response. "_Initiating override now._"

Cornelius glanced in his mirror, hitting the blues-and-twos as he twisted his wrist and sent his bike leaping forward, leaning to the side as peeled off the elevated highway and spiraled down the exit ramp towards 27. His headlights slicing a long white tunnel through the pre-dawn twilight, the particulates and thick gasses from the exhausts of the idling vehicles glowing like fog. Cats'-eyes glinted on the tarmac, the lights of the cars gleaming red. The traffic was static and already backing up – there was nowhere for the cars to go to as he weaved through them, sirens wailing and lights flashing, driving on the shoulder most of the way down.

He entered the highway at junction 119-37. The traffic here was stopped too, but his quarry hadn't, of course – the beat-up blue van, dark marine-gray in the flat monochrome illumination of the street lamps, raced through the stoplights as if they weren't there. "Failure to stop for designated traffic signal," Cornelius muttered, "driving without due care and attention, failure to signal a lane shift – three years." He weaved through the stalled stream of traffic, closing on the van.

Beyond this light, the road was empty – the cascade of stoplights had cleared the highway. Cornelius flipped a switch on his bike's handlebars and bit down twice for the PA circuit. "Stop the vehicle!" he shouted, his voice amplified by the bike's speakers over the roar of the engines and howl of the wind. "You are under . . ."

He got no further before the rear door of the van swung open and machine-gun fire clattered and chattered at him. He ducked down behind the fairing, weaving to the side. A hail of small-caliber bullets zipped past like hornets, a couple caroming off his armor and bike. The machine-gun ran dry and the perp – inexperienced or just stupid – remained standing in the doorway while he reloaded. Cornelius cut loose with the bike cannons, bullets tearing through the perp's stomach and shredding one of the rear tires.

The van fishtailed, slamming into the highway barrier. The metal railing was badly-maintained and it gave way, sending the van tumbling down a concrete embankment, scattering pink velvet-lined boxes as it went, to land battered and smashed in the flood-control channel below.

Cornelius followed it through the gap torn in the railing, engine-braking down the steep incline. Jewelery boxes slid under his tires, making his bike intermittently slip. "Control," he requested, "auxiliaries to my GPS – stolen property scattered at the crime scene, needs to be recovered."

He eased his bike to a stop ten yards from the van, now lying on its side, the engine still running raggedly. He swung himself off it and strode towards the van, drawing his lawgiver as he walked. He glanced into the rear of the van – the dead perp was lying broken amid a litter of pink boxes. Here and there, they had burst open, scattering the gleam of gold and the bright blue, green and white stars of sapphires, emeralds and diamonds amid his ruby-red blood. The rear of the van was clear – he moved cautiously along the underside, whipping around the front with his gun pointed at the windshield. It was smashed, the driver bloodied and pinned beneath a twisted steering wheel. Glass crunched under Cornelius' boots as the perp fumbled for a gun, managing to only get his fingers on the butt before a lawgiver bullet tore through his throat.

The passenger seat was empty, the windshield shattered outwards, smears of blood on the broken glass, a trail of it leading away. Cornelius spun, bringing his gun up. The third perp was running away as fast as he could on his injured leg – a fragment of the van was jammed in his thigh, blood spurting freely from it. He was ten yards away, moving slowly – an easy shot. Taking it would have been perfectly justified when the perp turned and clumsily pointed a pistol at him.

Instead, the perp went flying backwards as a Judge on a lawmaster roared out of one of the concrete tributary drains, her daystick held at hip-height cracking him across the stomach. He folded with a cry of pain, clattering to the ground. The Judge spun her bike to a halt, reaching up and removing her helmet, flinging her head forward and then back, shaking out her hair theatrically. Cornelius shook his head at the cliched entrance – all the little details were in place. She could have been playing Judge Daystrike in a particularly cornball performance of _Bullet For The Man_. "Control said I'd find you here," Anderson remarked. She glanced at the perp. "Glad I could help."

He jogged forward and kicked the perp's gun away, cuffing him even through he was unconscious. He snapped open his medikit and pulled out the biofoam dispenser, kneeling to administer first aid as he glanced up at her. "You ran down my fox!" he exclaimed in mock exasperation. He slid the spike out of the perp's thigh, firing the biofoam with the searing sound and smell of cauterizing flesh. "Well, don't just sit there looking like a recruitment poster!" he continued as she grinned at him. "He can't talk to me 'til he wakes up, and my shift's over in five. Get over here and find out who shotcalled the smash-and-grab."

The sun was just cresting the horizon, pouring down the concrete canyon and casting long shadows. She swung herself off the bike, the morning light haloing her, catching her golden hair and gleaming on the softness of her pink lips. She walked towards him through the dawn, her boots trudging through shadows, her body illuminated. Almost helplessly, he watched her walk; the casual swing of her hips, the lightness of her steps, the way she moved as if the weight of the street fatigues, armor web, duty belt and spug-kicker boots didn't apply to her. "And good to see you too, John," she said with a grin.

John. It'd been months since someone had called him that – and she'd been the last person to do it. He'd been lying slashed and wounded in her lap and a pool of his own blood, her hands cradling his head, carved-up by the traitor SJS Judge Rawne who'd ordered her killed. Then, her voice had been laced with terrified hope – the fear that he might die, begging the universe he wouldn't. Now, there was a deliberate insouciance to it, but the intimate, unique familiarity together with his own feelings for her – complex, misunderstood and denied as much as they might be – swept over him and tumbled him into uncertainty.

"I'm working, Cassie," was all he said – a little too brusquely, perhaps; certainly defensive although he intended it to be at least something of a joke. She was within arm's length of him, her body language unsure – a handshake would have been too formal, a hug too open to misinterpretation. She contented herself with doing nothing more than sinking to one knee by the perp and pressing her ungloved hand to his greasy, lank hair. The air was thick with ozone and unburned hydrocarbons from the vehicles' exhausts, the stench of rotting trash in the gutters – not to mention the small of his own sweaty, unwashed body – but Cornelius was nevertheless overwhelmed for a second by the scent of unfragranced shampoo and sandalwood soap. He shook his head to clear it – he was only partially successful. "You got anything for me?"

"Oh," she said dryly, "plenty – but on this case?" She shrugged. "Just a name; Giuseppe Calitri? That any use to you?"

Cornelius nodded. "Greaseball Itie restauranteur," he said shortly. "Just arrived here from sector 24. Lots of legitimate business, but we suspect he's muscling in on Jimmy the Turk's rackets. Couldn't pin anything on him – but this gives probable to go in and flash the bronze. Thanks." He stood and lifted his wrist. "Control? Two slabs and a grab – grab's KOed, needs medical attention. Meat- and catch-wagon to my GPS." Anderson couldn't hear Control's response as it crackled in his earbead, but she sensed the shift in Cornelius' mindscape as the case took one more step towards being wound down. He lifted his helmet off his head, running a gloved hand through his hair. It was the same smart crew-cut she remembered, a shade longer perhaps now he was a full Judge rather than a Cadet with daily grooming inspections. He was as handsome as ever – the same artless good-looks under a day's-worth of stubble and a shift's-worth of dust and grime. He hadn't had the scars from Rawne's blade removed – they were three thin white lines on his chin, lip and eyebrow where no hair grew, each aligned with the others. His badge still bore the deep score that matched them.

Anderson knew there were other scars – deeper, more serious – elsewhere on his body. Her psychic nearsense and her reading of his own superficial self-awareness – not to mention her own memories – allowed her to almost see them. As she watched, he pulled a moist towelette from a pouch in his pocket and wiped his face with it. He looked down at the cloth with revulsion and then screwed it up. Another man would have just chucked it to the ground to join the ever-present piles of refuse gathering in the gutters, but he stuffed it into his pocket when he couldn't locate a garbage can. "Good to see you, Cassie," he said earnestly. "I thought you'd . . ." His voice trailed off. "Sorry," he said, blushing.

It was no use – she could read him and his mind each about as easily as the other. "Too late," she said – but her voice was self-deprecating, guilty. "I've been busy, not forgotten you – far from it. But, that's no excuse," she admitted. "I'm sorry. But, you could have looked me up, too," she reminded him.

He shrugged, squirmed a little. "I'm Dredd's Rookie," he said. She laughed and shook her head.

"You're your own man."

"I didn't want to bother a division chief," he lied. She stepped towards him, holding his gaze in hers, letting him know with the look in her eyes she knew the truth and that she was patient; she could wait to be told he cared in the particular rather than the abstract – and, if he never did, she told herself that was fine too. He felt everything as if he were the psi, and looked away guiltily.

"Well," she said lightly, "the division chief wants to bother you. I've got a transfer request."

Cornelius folded his arms, looked up and around at the sector that had been his home and charge for almost half-a-year. "You should talk to my sector house commander," he said tightly.

"Already did," said Anderson gently. "And the Chief Judge."

The chronometer on Cornelius' wrist beeped. He glanced at it and silenced the alarm. "My shift just ended," he said with deliberate lightness. "This conversation would go better over breakfast – you hungry?"

She smiled and nodded. "I could eat," she admitted. "You got a place in mind?"

oOo

The breakfast venue was a street-level diner in the shadow of Dalton hab-block, half-hidden from the main highway by a crumbling off-ramp supported by rusting, over-engineered steel girders. The re-enforced concrete pillars supporting the roadway had been tagged, cleaned, re-tagged, painted over, scrubbed and tagged again so many times it was only because of her familiarity with them Anderson could discern the logos of the Reborn, the Blues and the Fire Clan. They were long-faded now, though – washed away by power hoses, obscured by paint and pollution, and rubbed off by time. Bright and crisp and clean on top of the archeology of graffiti was a stylized, cartoonish rendering of a Judge's badge in bumble-bee black-and-yellow. As the two of them eased their bikes to a stop, Anderson flicked her head at it.

"New gang?" she asked, disappointed. Cornelius swung himself easily off his bike and looked where she was gesturing. He laughed, shook his head and tapped his badge as he walked towards the door of the diner. Anderson flicked her kickstand down, scrambled off her bike and jogged to catch up with him. "_J-Dept_ tagged that?" she asked, amazed.

Cornelius shook his head. "Defacing public property is a _crime_, Judge Anderson," he said with a knowing smirk. "Citizens did that – municipal community art project, sector chief's idea." She just stared at his smug composure until it cracked and he gave a munce-munching grin. "You know the rule, Cassie," he told her, "when the big dog's walking, little dogs step aside. Right, Giant?"

They'd reached the door. Anderson looked up to see a Judge, Giant by name and giant by nature – he was a handsbreath shorter than Cornelius but even more massive across the chest and shoulders – exiting the diner, a presspulp cup of coffee in one huge hand. He and Cornelius linked wrists and grasped hands, each pulling the other forward so their badges clinked together. "Yeah, baby," rumbled Giant through thick lips. "Bow-wow, baby, bow-wow."

Cornelius turned to Anderson. "Cassie," he said, "Judge Giant, deputy shift chief here. Giant, this is Judge Anderson. Apparently, she's got a job offer for me." A cleft appeared in the black, rubbery flesh of Giant's broad forehead.

"Now don't be taking my brother away, Anderson," he said with a good-natured grin, but there was beryl armor behind it. Anderson gave a non-committal smile.

"I need John Cornelius, Judge Giant," she said seriously. "But it's always going to be his choice."

"Well," Giant looked mollified, the pragmatic wisdom of years on the streets showing through the armor and amicability, "can't say fairer than that. He usually makes good ones." He turned to Cornelius. "You off-shift, baby?"

"Yeah," Cornelius nodded. "Gonna grab some breakfast, get a shave and a shower and then bounce to the Academy – I've got hand-to-hand this morning." Giant shook his massive head.

"Man, I've told you before – you're gonna burn yourself out doing that." Cornelius shrugged.

"Keeps me sharp, brother," he assured Giant with a smile. "You want me fit for the inter-sector tournament, right?"

"Thro'-and-thro', baby," Giant laughed. "Word on the street is a bookmaker in Pinecrest is offering three to one on you."

"Word on the street is I'll bust his ass!" exclaimed Cornelius. "Wait," he asked. "Three to one?" Giant shrugged. "I'm trying to decide if we make the grab, or put the discretionary budget on me and make up our shortfall." Giant chuckled.

"Chief suggested we do both." He glanced at Anderson, suddenly nervous. "Of course, I'm only speaking as a joke, Judge Anderson," he assured her. Her gaze was icy and piercing, and it was only when Cornelius came to Giant's rescue that her poise cracked and she smiled.

"It's cool, Giant," he assured him. "She's Street, and no fan of SJS." Relieved, Giant nodded.

"I'm heading out," he said. "Anything I need to know?"

Cornelius shook his head. "Not really – there was a new slidewalker over at Mapin and Main, I flashed the bronze and moved her on, told her next time it'd be the cubes. Just so you know she's had her one for free." Giant nodded. "Blonde, skinny, about fifteen," Cornelius continued. "Leather miniskirt and a bikini top. Looked cold."

"Man," Giant's anger was palpable even to Cornelius – to Anderson, it was a dark purple thunderhead roiling with barely-contained power. "We should be busting her pimp."

Cornelius nodded. "I'll talk to the chief this afternoon, set up an op. I've got her details – I'll see what her family situation is like, but whatever it is, I want that punk going down."

"Amen, brother," Giant agreed. He grasped Cornelius' hand and clinked their bronze eagles together again in an embrace. "Take it easy." He lifted his chin to Anderson. "Good meeting you," he said briefly.

Anderson felt the insincerity of the phrase, the tension, the worry about losing a good man. "Judge Giant," was all she said. She watched as he mounted his bike and drove away, only then turning to Cornelius. "You didn't flash the bronze and move her on," she said quietly.

He looked down at her carefully. "Yes, I did," he said precisely.

"You also bought her a coffee," said Anderson. There was no hint of accusation in her voice. "And gave her an emergency blanket."

The invasion of his mind didn't seem to bother Cornelius. He shrugged. "She looked cold," he said shortly.

"You do that a lot?" she asked flatly.

His gaze was incurious. "Do what?" he asked. "Buy girls coffee?" He shrugged. "Sure, if I think they need it." He held the door open for her. "How'd you take yours?"

oOo

Anderson smiled as the waitress – pretty in pink and gingham, apron pockets stuffed with straws in sanitized paper tubes, dark hair pinned in a twisted bun with a pencil for taking orders – set her breakfast in front of her and topped up her coffee. "Thanks," she said. The waitress gave a half-smile back.

"Everything good?" she asked. "That's all?" Cornelius nodded, already salting his ecks. "Enjoy!" She bobbed a little curtsey and moved away. Anderson picked up her fork and poked at her omelet. Cornelius, his mouth already full of sosij and scrambled ecks, looked up at her.

"It's all good," he assured her. She smiled, watching him wolf down his own food.

"I'm sure it is," she said. "Breakfast's a big deal for me. Not often I get to have it with a friend," she added pointedly.

Cornelius stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth, grinned sheepishly and set it deliberately down, reaching for his napkin and wiping his lips. "Sorry," he said. She shrugged.

"You're hungry," she said. "It's cool."

"Long shift," he agreed. "But, you came here to see me." He took a bite of his hash browns. "So," he asked, "how have things been?"

She shrugged. "Good," she said. "We've inducted some Cadets who show psychic potential – you heard about the mandatory reporting law?" He nodded. "Younger children, mostly – potential psychic aptitude can be detected in toddlers, but usually doesn't manifest until puberty. J-Dept is playing it safe and sweeping in any who pass the aptitude tests – maybe even fudging some of the results."

"Hmm." Cornelius' grunt was non-committal, perhaps because his mouth was full and perhaps for other reasons. "And how are they taking it?"

Anderson sighed resignedly at the cruel inevitability of it. "How did _you_ take it?" she asked.

Cornelius looked up at her. "I was talking about the parents," he explained. He shrugged. "Hearts and minds, Cassie. Hearts and minds."

She looked down at her breakfast, poked it with her fork. "You can't make a good omelet without breaking some eggs," she said flatly. Cornelius sensed she wanted an out of this branch of the conversation.

"You don't like it?" he asked. He glanced around the restaurant, looking for the waitress. "Becky will get you something else . . ." She shook her head.

"It's fine – really. It's actually really good. I was just making a point," she admitted. "Unkindly, clumsily." She sighed again, very deliberately changed the topic. "Psi Division potentially has another recruit – senior Cadet called Corey."

Cornelius nodded. "She got hit with the Jak, right?" he asked. "Spazzed out. How's she doing?"

"She had good grades," Anderson said. "Top half of her class. Slid back a little, maybe – but that's to be expected. The Principal and I think she'll be ready for her assessment in a month or two. Her psychic abilities have stabilized – we think they're permanent." She smiled. "We're calling her an empath." Cornelius raised an eyebrow, spread his hands. "She can tell what you're feeling," she explained.

Cornelius drew his brows together in puzzlement. "Isn't that what you do?"

She shook her head. "I can tell what you're _thinking_," she said. "They're not always the same thing." She shrugged. "I'll admit – we're kind of finding our way in this. We've got Medi-Teks sticking goofy helmets on our heads every other day. If it weren't for DCJ absolutely vetoing it, I think they'd have put a drill to my cranium by now."

Cornelius laughed nervously – that unspoken fear, of Anderson strapped down and peeled open like a frog until all her secrets were exposed, hit a little close to home. "That reminds me," he said, grateful for the excuse to change the subject, "any news on the SJS investigation of Rawne? I haven't heard anything – but I'm not often at the Hall of Justice."

"Officially, nothing," Anderson said. "Classified investigation. Unofficially? Powdervine says the investigation is finished and half-a-dozen Judges ended up in Aspen."

Cornelius crunched a mouthful of toast, noticed the vagueness. "Judges?" he asked. "SJS or Street?" Anderson's pretty face twisted.

"You don't miss much," she said. "Not sure – but I think at least some Street." She shrugged. "Hardly surprising – Rawne was SJS, in the perfect position to blackmail a Judge if there was a skeleton in his closet he didn't want getting out."

"Or offer a cushy position in IA," Cornelius suggested reasonably. Anderson nodded in agreement as he continued. "Indoor work with no heavy lifting might seem appealing; a Judge can get burned out on these streets – we've both seen it, Cassie."

She smiled. "You sound like a vet," she chuckled. "What's it been – five months?" He shrugged, took a mouthful of coffee.

"I think you can see enough in a single shift to know it's true," he said defensively. Her face fell and he realized she'd meant no slight by it. "They say Spring and Summer are the crazy time – maybe I don't have perspective yet," he added, trying to soften his earlier words.

She smiled, accepting his unspoken and unnecessary apology. "I'm not exactly transferring to Unsung myself," she admitted. "And you're certainly not burned out – is that why you didn't take Cal up on his offer?" He narrowed his eyes and she shrugged. "Powdervine says DCJ pulled the SJS chair out for you twice," she explained. "You weren't tempted?"

"Three times," he corrected her. "And, no – like I told him, my place is on the streets. We're making a difference here, I think – I don't know what tale the stats tell, but there's something happening. Something good." He glanced towards the door as it opened – a beautiful, vivacious, curvacious girl was coming through, dressed in the waitresses' uniform. Her hair was cut efficiently and noticeably short – less than three inches. It was dark, straight and obviously untouched by peroxide or any other chemical. Cornelius lifted his hand to her and she waved, casting a curious glance at Anderson.

"Friend of yours?" Anderson asked. Despite herself – despite the fact it was illogical and she could sense nothing romantic (other than the low-grade physical desire practically every woman felt for Cornelius) between either of them – she felt a stab of jealousy. The girl was beautiful – stunningly, majestically so, even allowing for the obvious biosculpting and the growing out of the bleached-blonde hair. She moved with the grace of a born dancer, as if she didn't have a care in the world. Anderson – feeling the defeminizing weight of her fatigues, armor, loaded duty belt and heavy boots – could tell the only things in the waitress' wardrobe that were leather and metal were boots, the odd jacket, buttons and zippers.

Cornelius shrugged. "Old case," he said simply.

Anderson looked at him, the pieces falling into place. "You bought her coffee, didn't you?" she said.

Cornelius smiled, a little embarrassed. "Are we talking literally," he asked, "or euphemistically?"

Anderson carefully placed her knife and fork together on the edge of her plate and covered it with her napkin – she'd made a sizable dent in the omelet, but it was obvious she'd only been keeping him company. She pulled her coffee cup towards her and lifted it as their waitress approached and freshened it for her. "Both?" she asked mischievously.

Cornelius looked away for a few moments – Anderson could taste his discomfort; the dislike of having his kindness noticed, the unwillingness to admit he cared about people and not just the city, the foolishness of thinking that if he didn't acknowledge it no-one would know. She held her gaze, patiently waiting for him to face her again. "Guilty as charged," he admitted when he did. He wiped his plate and stuffed the last of his toast in his mouth, tossing his napkin down. "Delicious as always, thank you," he said to the waitress. She smiled and filled his cup.

"Anything else?" she asked. He shook his head. The waitress pulled out her order pad, scribbled some quick math on it and tore the top sheet of. Without even looking, Cornelius took it from her hand before she could put it back on the table, flipped it around and offered it back to her.

"Put the coffees on it," he said. He glanced at Anderson, who gave an understanding shrug. The waitress didn't react. Cornelius turned to her. "I'm not joking," he said. "How many times do I have to tell you? I _can't_ accept it."

The waitress' face fell. "The owner likes to do it . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Some of the Judges do," she assured him earnestly. She turned and gestured. "The big guy just in . . ." Cornelius winced.

"I didn't hear that," he said pointedly. The waitress' pretty mouth turned down at the corners and her face fell. "C'mon, Becky, you know this," he said with feeling. "And so does Dominic. It isn't fair for him to do this to you."

She nodded. "It's just . . ." she began. Angrily, she snatched the receipt back, scribbling furiously, snapping the lead of her pencil. She practically tossed the crumpled paper down on the table. "We just want to say 'thank you'!" she snapped.

Cornelius was already reaching for his wallet, shaking his head at Anderson's protests as she pulled out her purse. "I know," he admitted. He handed the check and a couple of bills back to the waitress. "But you'll never have to," he added gently.

For a second, Becky stood silent, her hands worrying the edges of the paper, her eyes misting with tears. "Let me get your change," she said without much hope. Cornelius just stared at her. "Oh, you're impossible!" she exclaimed, but she was smiling. She stuffed the check and money into her apron and cleared the table, glancing at Anderson. The Judge very deliberately didn't meet her gaze, staring into her coffee, not wanting to invite the questions she could feel hanging heavy in the air.

"So," asked Cornelius flatly when the waitress had left, "what's my new assignment?"

Anderson shook her head but didn't answer immediately. She pulled a medicine bottle from a pouch on her belt – an old-fashioned bottle, not a metered dispenser, Cornelius noted – and shook out two pills, swallowing them with a gulp of coffee. "You don't have one," she said firmly. She put her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. Everything about her – her tone, her stance, the look on her face – said this conversation was at an end. "It was wrong of me to come – not to come see you," she added hurriedly. "Breakfast was lovely, it was great to catch up – we _must_ do it more often. But you've got a good thing here." She shook her head. "I don't want to spoil it."

Cornelius laid his hand – gently but insistently – on hers. "Do I have to remind you I should call you 'Ma'am' when we're on duty?" he asked. "Your requests are orders."

She shook her head. "No," she insisted. "No, not this time. Maybe not ever."

"I know I have a good thing here," Cornelius said urgently. "I have a really good life – most Judges don't have that. Not a day goes by that I don't reflect on how lucky I am, but . . ."

Anderson smiled. "What did Dredd say when DCJ tried to dismiss you beating Rawne?" she asked. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

Cornelius shifted awkwardly, almost blushing. "I just do what Judges do, Cassie," he said. "I enforce The Law."

She flung up her hands in exasperation – drokk the man! Could he really be so obtuse? Or was this false-modesty? She didn't want to probe him deeply enough to find out, not with his hand so recently on hers and all that might reveal in his psyche. "Becky's right," she exclaimed, "you're _impossible!_" A few of the patrons turned to her and she sat down again, leaning forward and speaking to him with quiet urgency. "No, you don't," she whispered. "I know you, and I know that's not true. John Cornelius _flashes the bronze_."

"It's the same thing," Cornelius said dismissively. "I picked the phrase up from my mother – it's what she called it. I should probably stop saying it."

"Don't you drokking dare!" she snapped with a vehemence that surprised him. "And don't lie to me – I know."

His face was serious, his eyes dark eyes narrowed, thoughtfulness behind them, the golden sparkles glinting. "Because you're a psi?" he asked.

"Because I'm your _friend_," she whispered so quietly he wasn't sure if he even heard it. "You can say you don't care, but no-one believes you, not even you deep down where it counts. You flash the bronze – and that's more than enforcing The Law. And that's why I came – because I wanted the man Jackie adores, and Nick idolizes, and even Brufen admires. I wanted the man who leaves nothing on the table, who teaches Cadets to do more than kick ass, who buys girls coffee. I wanted the man making a drokking _difference_ in a spugged-up world!" Tears beaded in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. "I wanted John Cornelius as my XO on _Aegis_," she finished. "But I realize now that is selfish of me. I won't demand, I won't order – I won't even _ask_."

"Wait," said Cornelius, "XO? Two things; firstly, do women _really_ think that kind of manipulation – appealing to my ambition – is either subtle or effective? Secondly . . . actually," he realized he was being impolite, "three things. Secondly, I'm flattered – thank you," he said sincerely. "Thirdly . . . you said it yourself; it's been five months. There are better candidates."

Anderson shook her head. "There are candidates with more experience," she clarified. "But that's a two-edged knife – you're not rigid from years on the streets, you're not cynical, you're open to doing things differently." She looked at him seriously. "This isn't going to be anything like a regular assignment," she warned him. He smiled.

"I thought you said you weren't even asking," he reminded her.

Her wide mouth narrowed to a tight line as she realized her error. "I meant for me," she lied. "And you know the numbers – one in five Rookies don't survive their Assessment, the same amount die in the first month. The only difference between a twenty-week and a twenty-year man is time." Cornelius slowly turned his coffee cup in his hands, staring out the window deep in thought, his eyes distant.

"Cal wanted an SJS observer on _Aegis_," Cornelius remarked. "Even after being embarrassed by Rawne, he's wouldn't give that up easily," he opined. "You're a smooth operator, Cassie, but he's DCJ – I'm thinking it took all your time to get me approved. You won't get your second choice – even if you have one. You'll get Cal's pick."

Anderson's face twisted as if her omelet was repeating on her. "I'll get Slocum," she said with distaste.

"_Slocum_?" Cornelius asked, incredulous. He shook his head. "That's not going to happen," he stated flatly.

"No," said Anderson firmly. "I won't let you do it – give up this, your friends, teaching at the Academy. No. I withdraw the transfer request. I'll go to the Chief Judge and she can . . ."

"What if I told you I wanted to?" he interrupted with pardonable sharpness.

Anderson stopped as if she'd been slapped. "I . . . I wouldn't believe you," she stuttered lamely.

He actually laughed. "You're the _last_ person I can lie to, Cassie," he scoffed.

"Because I'm a psi?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Because you're my friend," he said. "Now," he continued before she could react, "how about you make the request?"

Anderson blinked, closed her eyes and bit her lip briefly, and then straightened. "Judge Cornelius," she said with apologetic and faintly-self-mocking formality, "the Council of Five has directed me to offer you the position of Executive Officer of the Psi Division HULA _Aegis_. This is not an order and you are not obliged to accept," she added.

Cornelius smiled, nodded, let the implication of the words flow over him. Anderson could feel him weighing them in his mind; not making the choice – she knew he already had – but rather making sure it was the right one. "Thank you, Judge Anderson," he replied in the same tone. "I am honored and flattered that I would be considered for such a position. I wish to be entered into the official record an objection concerning my inexperience, but I would also like the record to reflect the cogent arguments you made concerning my suitability for the assignment."

Anderson spread her hands, her face breaking into an exasperated smile. "There is no record, John," she said.

"So noted," he said with a grin. "I accept," he said so abruptly even she couldn't suppress a gasp. "You have the transfer paperwork, I presume?" He held out his hand. "I'm sure my commander's signed it already. You've probably signed it, too."

She nodded despite herself. "And DCJ," she admitted. "Deputy DivChief appointments need Council approval. But, wait," she said. "I believe you, and I am so grateful – you honestly have no idea. But . . . just tell me; why?"

He considered, awkwardly not meeting her gaze. "You think highly of me," he said. "Very highly, _too_ highly. But," he chuckled and shook his head, "you can't be so naïve you think I'm _immune_ to ambition." He shrugged. "That's a big promotion, lots of opportunity."

"It's riding herd on a Cadet, a citizen auxiliary, and a Tek-Judge observer in an experimental balloon," she countered, "and taking orders from a crazy blonde mutie with lots of enemies. It also isn't the truth," she added sharply. "Like you said, you can't lie to me."

"It _is_ the truth," said Cornelius, slightly offended. "Just not all of it," he admitted. "You said you wanted me, that you needed me. You've got a job to do, and enemies in the Department who've already taken a crack at you. You've got a young Cadet who needs stability, people she can trust, and – frankly? - a good teacher. You know," he said earnestly, "I'm not _bad_ at this Judge-Tutor spug."

"I know that very well," Anderson said earnestly, "I've seen your file. I wasn't _just_ thinking of myself when I requested you," she added.

Cornelius blushed. "Regardless of that," he said dismissively, suddenly regretting and embarrassed by his candor over his abilities, "what kind of Judge – what kind of _man_ – would I be if I said 'no' when you needed me? Yes, I have a good thing here – but you said it yourself; being a Judge isn't about being selfish – it's about doing the job. It's about flashing the bronze." He glanced down at his chronometer. "Which reminds me – I've got to bounce; class starts in an hour and I've got to shower and shave." He held out his hand. "Paperwork," he ordered.

Anderson smiled faintly as she snapped open a pocket in the thigh of her fatigues and pulled out the long, narrow envelope. She slid it over the table towards him. He reached out and laid his hand on it, but she didn't let go – their fingertips touched and neither of them did anything to pull them apart. "These moments are always like this," she remarked softly. "So undramatic, so . . ." Her voice faltered as she searched for a suitable word.

"Prosaic," suggested Cornelius.

She nodded. "You read more than me," she said apologetically. "But, yes – I like that. Prosaic. My own Assessment was like that." Her voice shifted, gravel grating in her throat. "You've passed, Rookie," she growled. "Put up your hand. Shift begins at oh-nine-hundred."

Cornelius laughed at her impersonation of Dredd. "I'll bet he didn't call you 'Rookie', though," he said seriously.

Anderson blinked. "No," she said, remembering. "He called me 'Judge'."

Cornelius nodded. "A man of precision is Joe Dredd," he said. He pulled the envelope towards him, it sliding under her fingertips. She'd ungloved to eat, only putting them back on as she stood to leave. Cornelius stared at her fingers for a few precious seconds, remembering their deceptive delicacy, their smallness but not weakness when seen beside his massive hands. He opened the flap and extracted the tri-fold sheet of heavy, dark blue paper. It was still warm from the heat of her blood, curved from pressing against the hard muscles of her thigh. Despite himself, a thought stole into his mind, quickly dismissed but long remembered – the undisguised curves of her figure in the form-fitting jumpsuit of Class I Dress in the Chief Judge's office. He forced himself to look down at the paperwork, pushing his mind off her beauty, embarrassed and ashamed of the part of him that reduced her to a mere alluring shape. He ran his eye quickly over the document, flipped it over and checked the back. He signed with a flourish at the bottom, folded it and handed it back to her.

He found Anderson was staring at him with gentle, awed compassion in her eyes. For a horrible moment, he wondered if she was aware of the dark thoughts that had flowed through his mind, if she suspected – as he assured himself and truly knew he did not, but still feared – he might have chosen to accept the posting so he could be closer to her. And then she smiled and took the document back. "Thank you," she said softly. It wasn't clear precisely what she was grateful for, even if there was a single answer. She stood up. "You should get going," she said briskly. "It's at least half an hour to the Academy."

He nodded and stood. The two of them started to walk to the door. "When do I report to _Aegis_?" he asked. "If you need me right now Novak could take . . ." She shook her head.

"No need," she assured him. "_Aegis_ sails tomorrow evening at nineteen-hundred from Tiger hangar in Big Tri. Just the shakedown cruise – it's not the official launch, just a short flight for a few hours to check things they can't test on the ground. Final hull coatings aren't even applied to _Manta_ yet."

"But the platform's fully operational?" asked Cornelius. Anderson nodded.

"She's armed and will be live-loaded, if that's what you mean," she said with a grin. "She's finished; just not christened, painted or tested."

"Gear?" asked Cornelius, pushing the door and holding it open for her. She walked through with a smile of thanks as he nodded his goodbyes to the waitresses.

"Officially no need to bring it for the shakedown, but we're both Street so I won't insult you by telling you no," said Anderson. "I'll have mine – we've each got a closet, about twice the size of a Sector House locker. It's field-accommodation with a washroom and infirmary, but bring your dopp kit and some K-rations if you want – you know the drill," she said.

"Check. Armory's equipped but bring personal weapons?" he asked. She nodded.

"Wouldn't presume to tell a Street-Judge otherwise," she grinned. "Bring your lawmaster too, if you want," she added. "_Aegis_ will carry three – yours, mine, a spare. We have vehicles there, but I know guys can be particular about their bikes."

Cornelius nodded. "She is very special to me," he said dryly. She laughed and mounted her own lawmaster.

"Give me an hour to get this filed," she said, holding up the paperwork, "and you'll be level seven with access to the restricted _Aegis_ files. I don't have to tell you reading them would be greatly appreciated if only so I don't have to. A zonejumper request with cargo hauling _will_ be approved at that level, but how fast depends on a lot of factors. Get it in early, _don't be late_. Brufen has a window with Weather Control and he will delay for no-one short of Fargo himself coming out of his mausoleum." She swept back her hair and grinned like a Cadet. "I miss anything?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, "but if I think of anything I'll call." He swung himself onto his bike. "Level seven," he remarked. "That's quite a promotion for Senora Cornelius' boy – will I see the raise in this month's check?" he asked with a grin. She snorted.

"You know the pay at any rank's barely spending money," she chided him. "Anyway, I know you – you became a Judge for the bronze, not the silver." He laughed.

"I'll catch some Zs this afternoon, likely a crash-cot," he said. "I'll read the files tonight – you need me, I'll be at my apartment, packing." A thought struck him. "Is Jackie coming with us?"

Anderson nodded. "As a Cadet, yes – not rated for engagement or sentencing, not cleared for live-fire except during training. You and I are responsible for her – she'll attend classes at the Academy, but I'd like you to help with her education on board."

"I'll talk to Pepper," Cornelius mused aloud. "He's got a good accelerated curriculum for late inductions – if you can make sure I retain my Tutor rating?" She nodded.

"Consider it done." Anderson smiled. "This is going to be . . . fun," she said. "Jackie is going to be so excited."

Cornelius laughed. "Fun?" he asked. "Policing uncontrolled psis across the entire city?" He shook his head. "You've got a different definition of that than me – and Jackie probably knows I'm coming. Just didn't want to tell you."

Anderson shrugged. "Could be," she admitted. "I'll guess I'll see if her poker-face is as good as the rest of her card skills." She hit the ignition and her bike roared to life. "See you tomorrow," she said. "_Thank you_ and don't be late!"

"Wait!" called Cornelius over the growl of the engine as she pulled away. She squeezed the brakes and stopped, turning to face him. "That stuff you said about the team – about Jackie adoring me and all that spug. How much of that is true?" She laughed.

"Vanity, Judge Cornelius," she chided, "is a terrible sin!"

He rolled his eyes. "Come on!" he exclaimed. "It ain't that – I've got work with these people. Gimme the skinny; were you just blowing smoke to massage my ego?" She seemed to consider.

"Well," she admitted, "maybe I did exaggerate. A little. About Brufen. I think he _tolerates_ you. But other than that?" she asked. She threw him a thumbs-up. "Psis don't lie. See you tomorrow – don't be late!" She pressed the tips of her first two fingers to her lips and flicked the kiss casually towards him, twisting her wrist and accelerating away in a spray of gravel and dust.

For a second or two, Cornelius sat silently on his bike and then he lifted his wrist and patched his communicator into the citizens' network. The 'phone on the other end chirped for a few moments and then an accented woman's voice answered. "_Hola, mamá,_" he said. "Can you set a place for me at breakfast tomorrow?"

**A/n : **My original intent when I started writing this story was that it was going to be the first story in "The Psi Files". But, then I realized it was getting too-long, too bogged-down in details and human interest and emotion and world-building all that wonderful spug that distracts from action and drama and stuff! So, here it is offered as a stand-alone piece within the context of my Dredd fiction, really, what this story achieves is answering the question "So, how did Cornelius get assigned as XO of _Aegis_?"

As mentioned, there is quite a bit of world-building here, much of which is taken from the comics. Slocum is a character in "The Day the Law Died" (from whence comes DCJ Cal). Corey is a comic character (she is also mentioned in "Aegis") as are Giant, Fargo and Pepper. _Bullet For The Man_ is a pretty obscure reference – in one of the comics, a perp trying to assassinate Dredd dresses in a fake Judge's uniform with a badge reading "Bullet". Hershey notices the name and it nags at her – she checks with Control to see if there is a Judge Bullet on the roster; there isn't – it is the name of a character is a play _Bullet For The Man_. Nothing more is said about the character or the play except he "goes down fighting in act III". I invented the name "Daystrike" as the female Judge in that play (a variation on "Daystick" as the male was called "Bullet").

Astute readers will notice connections to my earlier fics – Suzanne from "Aegis" has escaped the grindbar, Anderson's painkiller problem is implied (also referencing "Dredd 2"), and Anderson's Assessment from "Assessment Over" is presented, as well as Quartermain, Betancourt and Brufen from "Aegis" being mentioned.

And, of course, an implication about Cornelius' ethnicity is made!

Hey, look what's underneath here – a review box! Why not take a minute to type what you thought of the story? You've read this far . . .


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